


in joy and in tragedy

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, Foreshadowing, Pining, ft. Feanorians being dicks, oaths are bad ok kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Perhaps Finrod was foolish to imagine that the actions of a single Noldo would be enough to counteract the Oath his cousins swore.Though to hear others talk, there is no "perhaps" about it - he wasdefinitelyfoolish.





	in joy and in tragedy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/gifts).



> for gaolcrowofmandos, whose [ interests in the angsty and dialogue-driven](https://gaolcrowofmandos.tumblr.com/post/168871202789/hi-what-is-your-favorite-kind-of-silmarillion-fic) are perfect for these two, oh yes
> 
> thanks for being an awesome reader :)

Findaráto is under no illusions about what is coming – indeed, it seems that he has known for what feels like a long, long time already. The avalanche might have begun with the Man who knelt in the middle of Findaráto’s great hall this day and beseeched his aid, but – oh, the first of the stones cascaded from their place long ago, longer even than Beren has been alive.

So it was more than a Man whom Findaráto acknowledged this day – more even than his own ring, held aloft above the Man’s head in supplication. It was his doom that Findaráto stepped down from his throne to greet, as he bent to kiss the Man’s hands and bid him stand; it was his death he accepted, in taking back the ring he had once gifted Barahir.

His court had murmured, but only at the impropriety of their king behaving so before a foreigner, and not at the utter devastation that Findaráto can already envision trailing in his wake, for what he has done.

And even now as he walks away, oath in play and ringing within his bones, the silver snakes of his father’s house wink up at Findaráto as slyly still as they had when the ring first left his hand at the Fen of Serech. He could claim now that he had been in shock then, at surviving the Battle of Sudden Flame, but – that comes perilously close to dishonoring the dead, shamefully near claiming that he had not known what it was he did when he promised his savior, Barahir, everlasting friendship between their houses and aid in any form the Man or his kin might ever need.

And yet –

It is not the fault of Beren that this is the form Findaráto’s oath has finally taken.

It is not the fault of Barahir’s son that he has had to fight through hell itself, or that he might have lost his heart to one whose heritage and whose line might keep him from claiming it back.

_(Findaráto can agree with as much from his own experience.)_

It is not the fault of Barahir’s son that he has exhausted every possible means of seeking relief, even if that meant coming to a foreign land and begging the personal aid of its king.

_(If Findaráto had ever thought his own situation could be alleviated in like manner, he would have taken horse right to his cousin the High King and begged Findekáno’s aid in much the same way.)_

It is most certainly not the fault of Barahir’s son that Findaráto foolishly imagined an oath of friendship and aid could never be twisted, the way an Oath of vengeance and blood must already be.

_(But Findaráto had been foolish, and Findaráto had sworn an oath, just as he had always twitted his other cousins for doing, and now all of Nargothrond will suffer for his hubris and his pride.)_

Findaráto does not know why he would have imagined anything different, anything less, coming to pass. For this is the way of an oath, is it not – a life for a life, a death for a death, a sacrifice of innocence to sate the glut of guilt that drove the oath-maker in the first?

And with a chilling surety, Findaráto does know that he can do nothing more but brace himself for the storm that will follow, and hope that his ensuing wreck is enough to provide shelter for some of his people.

 

~ ~ ~

Edrahil, ever-faithful captain that he is, follows close, too close, behind him as Findaráto leaves the hall, obviously fretting about whether he can provide more protection by striding out in front or guarding Findaráto’s back. One hand already to his sword, he settles for striding at Findaráto’s side, as if waiting for their enemy to manifest beside them and strike.

They have no enemies here, Findaráto aches to tell him, only kinsmen and allies.

_(As if such two could not hurt a king far, far worse than any enemy.)_

“Edrahil,” he settles for saying, softly. “There is nothing to fear. Not here, not in my very halls.”

The fury in Edrahil’s eyes could melt stone, but the captain’s voice is equally soft. “My king. With the return of your ring, that makes four serpents now that we have welcomed within these halls. There will be no safety here save that which I can provide for you.”

His captain is faithful beyond anything that Findaráto deserves.  

“Edrahil-“

His words are echoed from the shadows not five steps behind them. “Ahhh, Edrahil.”

Whirling in answer to the voice he most hates, Edrahil draws his sword.

It is the first time a weapon has been drawn within Findaráto’s peaceful kingdom, and Findaráto can feel their peace draining away with each new length of the blade that comes unsheathed.

“No,” he tells Edrahil. “Stay your hand.” He would place his own hand at Edrahil’s hilt, but – the blade is already drawn.

To their shadow, he says only, “Curufinwë.”

For of course it is the son of Fëanor who materializes behind them, who looks as angry – perhaps angrier, even – than Findaráto’s captain. “You are the worst sort of fool, Ingoldo.”

“You will not speak to the King in this manner!” Edrahil roars. His hand and his sword, ever steady in battle, shake only with the strain of holding back.

“I will speak to a fool of any station as his foolishness merits, not as his station demands,” Curufinwë says smoothly, dismissively. He does not regard Edrahil even as he speaks of him – he looks only to Findaráto, and Findaráto can feel the ice of his anger, chilling where Edrahil’s would warm. “Ingoldo. Can you see your way to dismissing your rabid guard dog for a few moments’ time? Or do you truly imagine that I would stick a pin in your pretty eye where anyone could walk by and see?”

Edrahil snarls, incensed more by the familiar address of his king than the insult to himself, and the last of Nargothrond’s long-held peace slips through Findaráto’s shaking fingers.

“Edrahil. I will walk to my chambers with my kinsman. You may meet us there.”

“My king!” But Edrahil must see that Findaráto will not be moved from his purpose, for he gives a short, shaking bow, and turns to leave.

But not without a parting swing at Curufinwë. “I will await you there, Fëanorian. Be sure that he returns in the shape of mind and body that he inhabits now, or it is _you_ who will not leave in the same fashion.”

Curufinwë smirks, cruel and ugly. “Oh, captain, _captain_. As if you had even the slightest say in the matter!”

Edrahil flushes, and with one last snarl for Findaráto’s kinsman, stalks away down the corridor before them.  

“Jealousy _and_ insolence – for shame,” Curufinwë says lightly, starting off again. “You know, Ingoldo, I would recommend having the dog put down before he finally turns on his erstwhile master instead of his current competition. Come on, come on – do you imagine I _want_ to spend all day staring at the walls?’

Findaráto ignores half this statement, so characteristic of Curufinwë and his caustic tongue, and walks after Curufinwë’s retreating back as if this was just what he had planned to do all along. “Curvo. What is it that you would say to me, that you would have me drive Edrahil away?”

Almost faster than Findaráto’s eye can follow, Curufinwë has whipped his fist into the wall. The stone does not crack or dent – of course it does not – but Curufinwë, smoldering with all banked fury of a late summer storm, makes no sound of pain either. “Why. Ingoldo. Tell me why.”

He does not specify, though in truth there is only one thing he could be asking about now. But Findaráto does not know what to tell him, and so he pretends.

He has gained much practice in pretending, and about all manner of things, since the Battle of Sudden Flame.

“Curvo, could you be any more specific?”

And it is telling of Curufinwë’s mental state that he does not call Findaráto on this obvious prevarication, but actually answers him instead. “You swore an oath. After all of this – after everything you have seen, after everything we have done – you swore an oath, and to a Man, no less.”

His fist, Findaráto notices absently, clenches, where it is still against the wall. As if Curufinwë needs the balance – Curufinwë, who never falters! “Ingoldo, I could happily wring your foolish neck, and damned be my spirit for the act. What were you _thinking_?”

“He saved my life, Curvo.” Except that is not it, that is not it at all.

“That boy in there? Ingoldo, be serious, that whelp could barely have been grown during the Dagor Bragollach.”

“His father.” Findaráto hears himself speak as if in a dream or from some great distance away.

“And you thought to show your gratitude in the stupidest way possible.”

“No.” It is important, for some reason, that Curufinwë of all people understand Findaráto’s actions towards Barahir, and the fitness of his life, his reign, his – oh, say it, his _love_ – now being demanded by Beren, all unknowing. “It was not simply gratitude, Curvo, but –“ Ah, but those sharp eyes always make Findaráto lose his words! “Significance, perhaps? Symmetry? Curvo, he need not have left Dorthonion at all, for this was not his fight, and he need not have saved me, of all those besieged he came across. But he did. And I thought. . .”

It was about time he admitted it, even if only to himself – Findaráto had thought that maybe an oath made in friendship could be a way forward, a way toward healing another Oath by creating stronger bonds, better ones.

He had overlooked the fact that bonds remained bonds all the same, no matter their initial intent.

“Of course it was the Man’s fight,” Curufinwë whispers, but he looks – haunted. “It has become a fight that demands of all of us, and has ever since He returned to these shores. But you cannot imagine that mine will let me lie quiet, especially if you are actually proposing to go gallivanting off in search of those cursed things.”

Curufinwë does not signal a change of subject, nor does he name his Oath, or the Silmarils.

But there is no need for any of that. Findaráto knows what he means.

“I do not.” This is as straightforward a warning, Findaráto imagines, as Curufinwë can give him of some coming betrayal, and already it is more than he had thought he would get. “I do not, Curvo.”

Curufinwë’s eyes are bleak, and dry, as he nods. Findaráto is struck by a strange and sudden desire to offer him comfort _(how? why?)_ but Curufinwë is already in motion again, striding away down the corridor, back on track towards Findaráto’s chambers, where Edrahil surely awaits them, fretting.

And Findaráto is left standing alone, with one hand half-raised. His palm is cold where he would have set it to Curufinwë’s shoulder, and his mouth is cold where he would have set it to Curufinwë’s lips.


End file.
